


Fever Dream

by anaisangel



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Choking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, POV Joker (DCU), Sadism, Somnophilia, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29518212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaisangel/pseuds/anaisangel
Summary: All good things come to those whowait.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Fever Dream

The window’s unlocked, cracked open a marginal amount that makes the Joker think of an invitation – you’re getting more eager for his little visits, that self-preserving veneer of yours chipping away each time he digs his claws into you. But the way he’s feeling right now, bubbling with something viscerally carnal, he thinks he might just shatter you to pieces, instead.

It’s the leftovers of his earlier _affairs_ , still vibrating hot in his veins, and thinking about you – all pretty and _eager_ , makes him lick his lips in anticipation.

The apartment is basked in darkness, streetlamps stretching luminescence through the window. His shadow cuts an outline against the carpet as he steps through, covetous gaze scanning the room in search of his prey. The bedroom door is ajar, dim, scintillating light trickles through. He pushes it open with a tap of his fingers, his head cocking slightly as he takes in the picture before him – and what a _tempting_ picture it is.

You’re asleep, delicate features usually twisted with some variation of uncertainty or desperation or, and this is his personal favorite, an equal combination of both, soundly oblivious to the dangers outside your dreams.

 _Well,_ what _do we have here?_

An oversized T-shirt pools below your breasts, ridden up much like the blankets bunched at your feet. He absently glides his tongue over the scar on his lower lip, drinking in the soft rise and fall of your ribs, your stomach, bare legs washed in the pale light of the television, exposed and soft, unmarred like a blank canvas.

Now you’re just _asking_ for something to happen, and maybe that’s exactly what his _little bunny_ has planned: leaving the window open for the demon outside, a silent – _soon to be vocal_ – request for more. The pretty little lace panties you matched with your tattered T-shirt is what _really_ drives it home for him.

He’s certainly not one to pass up an opportunity, _especially_ not one handed to him on a silver platter – he licks his lips again, a man before a feast. That anticipation from before ekes its way back in, spurs him to shimmy the trench off his shoulders, gloves next.

He descends with a practiced deftness, your legs parting subconsciously around his hips, and he takes a fleeting second to admire the tranquility on your face. _Pretty_ as you are, it’s the _change_ that’s always been a favorite of his, the _transition_.

The thrum of your heart beats beneath your warm skin, felt on his lips. Steady for now as he kisses up the column of your throat, nipping the closer he gets to your jaw. A small whine, a shift in movement; you’re floating to awareness. He brings a hand to your stomach, gliding down to slip beneath the hem of your panties.

Latching onto the skin beneath your ear, he sucks harshly, circling your clit with a ghostlike pressure. With a lethargic mewl you raise your hands, curl your fingers into the fabric at his shoulders. He works you to a haze of animation; hips rocking against him, chasing down the tips of his fingers, blissfully aroused and slick. Nipping your earlobe once, just hard enough to make you whine, he draws back to get a _good_ look at you.

Lids at half-mast, hazed with lust, you whine.

_“J…please.”_

It’s pleading, gentle, _unassuming_. His cock twitches, straining against his slacks. He breathes against your face, draws back when you crane your head in search of his lips. He wonders what’s going on in that head of yours; floating somewhere between here and there, placing your welfare in his bloodied hands, thinking your little _scheme_ is working out simply fine.

But as smart as you are, you always seem to lose that _edge_ , that _determination_ when he gets his hands on you – something in you sees something in him, and it’s not just his _charming_ personality. You continuously dance on the edge of a blade with him, cut yourself open with him, willingly, _desperately_ take everything he has to give you.

He’d revel in that knowledge – _always wanting more from him_ – but there’s more _pressing_ matters at hand.

Abruptly, he sinks two fingers into your tight cunt, stretching you and jolting your body. Spine arching off the bed, you burrow your head into the sheets and give a whine, spreading your legs and rocking against him. The long expanse of your throat is exposed, he wants to tear into you hard enough that your next sound is caught between _his_ teeth.

_But not yet…no._

All _good_ things come to those who _wait_ and watching your revelation is just the start of all the _fun_ things he’s got planned.

He builds you up; curls his fingers knuckles deep, drags them along your inner wall while his thumb rubs against your swollen clit. Watching you come to life beneath him isn’t even the best part – the strangled, part-sob, part-swear you give when he eases up is getting closer, but he’s looking for something a bit more… _profound_.

He shifts, brings his hand to the base of your throat, a light pressure that doesn’t _quite_ ring dangerous in your stupor. Rolling against him, begging for more, you’re almost there. He can feel the way you tighten, pleasure pulled taut between delirious release and his tumultuous movements – dragging you to the precipice and yanking you back before you fall over.

He does it again, harder this time, forcing you to coherence with the vigorous thrust of his fingers. Your mouth drops open, a violent shudder racks your frame, curving into him with your nails burrowed into his shoulders.

He stops, you give a piteous whine, looking at him with that deference that makes his blood sing in his veins. He grins, malicious and wicked, tightens his grip around your throat hard enough your next breath comes out on a rasp, concentrated fear twisting your pretty face.

_“Rise and shine, babygirl.”_


End file.
